Her Dirty Little Games
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MILA
The morning sunlight was brutal.
Like, really brutal.
I groaned, rolling over on my bed, immediately regretting every single shot I’d taken last night. My head pounded, my throat felt dry, and my stomach was threatening to start a protest.
The faint smell of jollof and spilled alcohol still lingered in the room. I cracked one eye open and nearly screamed when I saw Sandra sitting cross-legged at the edge of my bed, bright-eyed, fully dressed, and scrolling through her phone like she’d slept eight peaceful hours in heaven.